


The Right Incentive

by Pic_Akai



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pic_Akai/pseuds/Pic_Akai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes refuses to travel in police cars because of what happened in the back of one several years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Incentive

**Author's Note:**

> While this is tagged as dub-con, I personally think of it as non-con due to the state of mind consent is given in. However you choose to class it, please be aware that I consider it quite dark.

"Come on, you've got to listen to me! This is ridiculous!" Sherlock was well aware that he was entering what Mycroft called his 'tantrum phase'. He also didn't care, partly because tantrums didn't seem embarrassing to him - it was a legitimate expression of one's frustration - and partly because he knew from experience that tantrumming tended to work to get him what he wanted with many people. Certainly it worked with Mycroft, though the standoff could take a while. Weeks, in fact, sometimes, so it wasn't always worth it.

With those who didn't know him, however, and especially those who'd never cared for young children, it often worked a lot faster.

"I don't have to listen to you," Stevenson said. "In fact, I'm quite within my rights to either completely ignore you, or perhaps lock you up for a while for breach of the peace."

Sherlock frowned even deeper. "I'm not breaching the bloody peace!"

Stevenson raised an eyebrow. "This is not peaceful."

Sherlock took a moment to contemplate that women were always harder to break than men. It was as if they had some innate ability to tune out annoyances, even if they complained about them more often. Probably from millennia of child-rearing. Useful if you were a mother, irritating if you were Sherlock.

He took a breath and tried again. "I'm not asking for anything illegal. I'm not even asking for anything immoral. I just want you to listen to me." He tried the eyes, the central point of that hangdog expression. That often worked on women when it didn't on men.

Stevenson, however, seemed to be impenetrable. "And why should I?" She folded her arms, leaning against the wall just out of sight of the entrance. They were outside the police station because the desk sergeant refused to let him enter any more, after his demonstration several weeks ago about the different types of manure at a crime scene. Sherlock still maintained that it was a perfectly reasonable way to prove a point, if no one was going to take him seriously without proof, but apparently the Yard's delicate noses couldn't handle it. So they were having this ridiculous conversation outside, which unfortunately meant that Sherlock didn't have the weight of the others' dislike of him on his side. Even the meekest of constables would complain to their superiors about Sherlock enough that they'd often give in to him with little work on his part.

He restrained from rolling his eyes by biting his lip hard instead before speaking. "You know I'm good at this. You know I've proven myself right before, more than once. You know you need my help."

She scoffed at him. "I know I've got an entire bloody station full of detectives in there, Sherlock, and they might not be as quick as you but they're sure as hell not stupid. And what's more, they aren't insufferable prats, and none of _them_ were picked up two nights ago for being high as a kite, because none of them are stupid enough to do coke."

"Bletchley does," Sherlock said immediately. "Every weekend. And Eaves has tried it, but she didn't like it. Prefers weed. Harper-"

"That's enough," Stevenson snapped, cutting him off, and Sherlock took a moment to be pleased with himself. He was getting through to her now.

They eyed each other for a second or two.

"I can't be seen to be taking advice from a criminal," Stevenson said, but she didn't sound like she'd made up her mind entirely. "Which is what you are, whether you think you should be or not. Regardless of whether or not you're right, I could lose my job if I bring you in again, and I'm not prepared to risk that. Not for this case, because it means I get this one but then I get nothing else after, when I'm fired. And I do my job because unlike you, I actually enjoy helping people."

Sherlock couldn't help the face he pulled. "Don't be ridiculous, Detective Inspector. I know that's what you tell your underlings, and what you tell your parents, and perhaps even what you tell yourself, but when it comes down to it, you do this for the same reason as I do. You like the puzzles."

Stevenson's face hadn't really moved. Even if one studied her closely, she didn't seem to have had much of a reaction at all to what Sherlock had said. But that in itself was reaction enough for Sherlock.

He'd got her.

They continued to stare at one another.

Eventually she took a deep breath, exhaled, and then set her mouth into a determined line. "Regardless..." she began, then trailed off. "It's not worth it."

Sherlock did roll his eyes, this time. "What would make it worth it, then?" He didn't have much to bargain with, being every inch the twenty four year old drug addict she had him pegged for, but he could get things if he needed to.

A slow smile crept itself onto her face like she wasn't aware of it, her eyes half closed. He'd never seen that look from her before but he wasn't surprised by it. "You," she said finally. "I follow your advice on this case, and allow you to examine what evidence I legally can, and you are to follow my instructions to the letter. If you can't do that, you don't get in."

"Define a time frame," Sherlock said. He wasn't stupid; he'd learned _that_ lesson long enough ago from stupid bets with Mycroft. He still couldn't smell chamomile tea without feeling the urge to throw it at a wall.

Stevenson looked thoughtful for a moment. "Twenty four hours," she said, "Before I let you in on the case. Then until you finish it."

"I have to obey you for twenty four hours regardless of the case?" Sherlock questioned. "What's the point?"

The smile from before returned, but this time it morphed into a grin, and it was truly ugly. Sherlock found himself a little disturbed by that. "You'll see," she said. "Do we have a deal?"

He was tempted to tell her to get lost, but he'd done worse for less, and it had been weeks since he'd had anything good to get his mind round, hence the coke two nights ago. None of the others at the Yard were inclined to even communicate with him, much less let him in, so this was his only chance unless Mycroft came up with something - and he refused to until Sherlock quit the cocaine, which was simply petty, and Sherlock refused to buy into it.

"Done," he said, shaking the hand she proffered, still studying that grin.

"Right," Stevenson replied. "It starts now. I want you to go home and shower. Dress in something clean and el - actually, that blue shirt you had on at the Morgan crime scene. That'll do. Eat if you want, you won't get a chance tonight. I'll pick you up at six. You still in that revolting place on Ainsworth Street?"

Sherlock nodded once, his mind calculating all the possible ways tonight could go. So far it sounded as though she wanted to take him out on a date, but a date at that time without food involved sounded unusual, not that Sherlock minded. Whatever it was, it seemed to be shaping up to be entirely pedestrian, and he wanted to groan at the banality of it all. She had him for twenty four hours and all she could think of was to dress him up and have him accompany her? He could solve multiple cold cases, serve as a decoy, god, even move furniture about, but no, she wanted him to be a dress-up doll. How _dull_.

He kept this monologue internal, because he did have some self-control sometimes, when he wanted something, and he didn't want her to call the deal off. She said, "Right. Six," at his nod, and turned smartly and walked away, going back inside. Sherlock made for home and the enforced shower, conjuring ever-more unlikely scenarios on the way to keep himself occupied.

* * * * *

Stevenson turned up at five past six. Sherlock was already waiting outside, dressed in the requested blue shirt, his newest suit and a meticulously polished pair of shoes to match. The kid down the road had zero pride in his own scruffy appearance, but could clearly do a good job if he had an incentive. Sherlock knew looking smart was often to his advantage, but the upkeep of the look was tiresome.

She pulled up to the kerb and looked him up and down through the open window, not bothering to hide her assessment. "That'll do," she said, and Sherlock groaned internally as his deductions about what the evening held seemed to be bearing out. "But take the jacket off," she said, as he got in. "You won't need it." It was unseasonably warm for the end of September so he didn't argue, though he did feel it ruined the ensemble a little. Though perhaps it wouldn't matter if where they were going deemed itself smart-casual. Stevenson had changed from her work clothes, but into something much of the same ilk - a straight skirt, ever-so-slightly too tight around the hips, and a non-descript pale yellow blouse, though now both her collar button and the one below were undone. She still wore no jewellery, which either meant his assumptions about their probable destinations were incorrect, or she was the type of woman who felt she didn't need it. Yes, thought Sherlock, that was probably it. Katherine Stevenson had stomped on more than a few balls on her way up the ranks, by all accounts, yet she still had had the mindless drones at the station slavering over her, "Yes ma'am,"ing all the way home.

It was pathetic. But then, that was nothing new for the Yard. Still, Sherlock almost respected her for her ability to order them about without seeming to expend much effort. Almost, because it was clear that at least half of their devotion was due only to her looks, rather than her manner. None of them seemed to have caught on to the fact that she was as likely to sleep with any of the men she worked with as she was to instigate a knitting circle.

"Where's your car?" Sherlock asked as she pulled away once his seatbelt was fastened. It was too soon to determine their destination yet, but they were headed in the opposite direction to the Yard.

"Can't you tell by my perfume or something?" Stevenson responded with a fleeting, unimpressed glance, and then replied anyway. "The alternator's being replaced."

"So you stole a police car instead. How quaint." This statement served two purposes: one, it would likely rile her up, and two, her response ought to confirm or deny whether their plans were anything to do with police work.

"The definition of theft is the dishonest appropriation of property belonging to another with the intention of permanently depriving the other of it," Stevenson said, sounding a little impatient. "As I do not intend to permanently deprive the Met of this car, I have therefore not stolen it." So it hadn't been taken for work purposes then.

They drove in silence for another five or ten minutes, until Stevenson stopped the car outside a modest block of flats. Judging by the area, the look of the flats themselves and Stevenson's salary, this was where she lived.

He followed her from the car and inside. She opened the door to her flat onto a spacious living room, which would have been almost empty if it weren't for the books lining almost every wall. Sherlock stepped to one side to read some of the titles and found what was seemingly her crime section.

"Sit down on the sofa," Stevenson said, interrupting his thoughts. "Actually, take your shoes and socks off first and put them there, with your jacket." She gestured vaguely near the door, where she had already toed her own - sensible, flat - shoes off. "I'll be back in a minute."

Sherlock removed clothes and sat as instructed, beginning to feel the slightest inkling of interest in what was happening. No doubt it would prove to be mundane, but so far it wasn't entirely clear, and that in itself was interesting. Stevenson's motivations weren't obvious, and motivations were so often the key to deducing an answer to any query.

When she returned, she brought with her a large cardboard box, which didn't appear to have a lid. She placed it on the coffee table in front of Sherlock and told him not to look into it. That he didn't mind; working out the contents was something to occupy his mind, at least. Then she sat next to it, on the table, directly opposite him and about a foot apart, and for a minute or so said nothing.

Now _this_ was interesting.

"Am I supposed to deduce your plans?" Sherlock said, when she appeared no closer to doing anything. "Something to prove I'm worthy of being brought in?"

She smiled at him, but there was no warmth in it. He'd rarely seen warmth in her. "I know you're worthy of being brought in on the case," she replied. "This isn't about that. I just want to take my time."

"You have twenty four hours," Sherlock replied, unsure if that was what she was referring to but taking a guess.

Stevenson gave a nod. "True, but that's not very long at all, is it?"

"It's a long time for many moths," Sherlock said.

Stevenson didn't reply to this, and instead returned to staring at him. Eventually, she appeared to make her mind up, and sat up straighter.

"Unbutton your shirt," she said decisively.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock replied, with a slight frown.

She rolled her eyes. "You're neither an idiot nor deaf, so don't act like it. Shirt, unbuttoned."

Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt, keeping his eyes on her face, which didn't reveal much. When he got to the last button he began to lean forward to shrug it off, but she pushed him back by the shoulder. "No," she said, sounding annoyed. "I didn't say take it off."

"You didn't say leave it on, either," Sherlock said, mulishly, and she frowned at him for a moment before turning to reach into the box.

She drew from it a dinner candle and a lighter. Sherlock's eyebrows raised fractionally. His deductions had definitely been off. There were several new possibilities now as to where this was going, and he wasn't sure which of them would be best.

"Stay still," she warned him, before lighting the candle. She then stood up, rearranged his legs so his feet were flat on the floor, and sat down again on his knees. She wasn't particularly heavy, but the weight was unexpected.

Slightly less unexpected, by now, was her bringing the candle to hover a few inches about his chest, and then tilting it so that after several moments, hot wax dripped from it onto Sherlock's chest. He winced slightly, though he didn't move. He wouldn't have moved anyway, had he been doing this to himself - he'd experimented before with a naked flame on his skin, though not wax - but she wasn't to know that.

Sherlock's eyes moved up from the spot of wax on his chest to Stevenson's face. She looked a mixture between thoughtful and pleased. It was the same sort of look she got when a new lead came in, usually from Sherlock, though she didn't usually look pleased until he wasn't anywhere near her.

She dropped another spot, a bit lower. It dripped a little, but not by much; the quantity of wax wasn't enough and it hardened too fast. Stevenson seemed to think along the same lines, because she let another spot drip and then frowned, before leaning backwards and back into the box. She used the first candle to light a second, this one much thicker and ensconced in a glass holder, then blew the first one out before placing it on the table. Sherlock watched as it gave its last drip to the wooden surface.

"This needs a while to warm up," Stevenson told him, holding the candle in one hand. She braced her other hand against Sherlock's shoulder, then leant closer. He could smell a hint of something, probably bodywash. It smelled like chemically produced apples, anyway. It told him nothing about the state of her car, but that she probably didn't think it a cardinal sin to be sweaty. She had guts to go against the flow, when she needed to.

"What are you thinking?" she asked him, face inches away from his.

"There are far too many answers to that question to give in the time we have available," Sherlock replied.

She smirked at him. "You're just so clever," she said, her gaze roaming from his eyes to his mouth, cheeks, nose, forehead, hair. "Sometimes just a bit _too_ clever."

"I wasn't aware that was -" he broke off with a sharp hiss of breath, glancing down to find a long trail of wax in the middle of his chest and up again to see her still smirking.

"This is going to be uncomfortable to remove," she said lightly, pulling at part of it with her fingers. Sherlock winced again; she was right. It had matted easily with his chest hair and the two didn't seem to want to be separated. "Still," she continued, "Not my problem. Now..."

She continued to play with the wax for another five minutes or so, until Sherlock's chest was fairly well covered with the stuff, spots and drips and trails here and there, and it had long ceased to be painful. Once she'd studied him and apparently decided that it was enough, she blew the candle out and placed it on the table.

Stevenson then stood up, considering him from above, taking long looks up and down his body. Sherlock watched her in return, intrigued about what was to come next.

"I think-" she began, but stopped as they heard the phone ringing.

"Hold that thought," she said, presumably to herself, and left the room to pick up the landline in the kitchen.

Sherlock only half-listened to the conversation she was having, until her annoyed tone became more pronounced, and then it sounded like it became an argument. More likely, it was her telling some uncomfortable constable off and then apologising. "Fine," she snapped, "But I'm leaving as soon as you lot can cope without me."

She hung the phone up, then stood there for a few seconds, drumming her fingers against the wall and apparently thinking. She looked at Sherlock, visible through the open doorway, and then clicked her fingers. "Right," she said. "You're just going to have to come with me."

On the way - she told Sherlock not to redress, so he didn't - she explained shortly that there had been a development in the same case Sherlock had information on, and apparently they needed her there to make a decision on following it up. Sherlock hoped this wouldn't make his knowledge void, because that would mean a lost opportunity for something to do as well as a wasted hour or so with Stevenson this evening, depending on how long they were at the Yard for.

He occupied himself with trying to work out what lead they'd managed to come up with - presumably she would've said if it was another body - but was distracted when Stevenson stopped the car a few streets away from the Yard. "I thought you said they needed you at work?" he said.

"They do," she replied. "But I don't need you there. Get in the back and undress."

Sherlock decided not to bother questioning this, as it hadn't helped last time, so he dutifully climbed out of the car and got into the back seat. There he removed his trousers, socks and shirt, and made a half-hearted attempt to fold them before placing them on the seat next to him.

"All the way," Stevenson snapped, and he paused a moment before sliding his underpants down as well. He was glad the car seats weren't leather.

She got out then and went to the boot, and returned with the cardboard box, this time climbing into the back seat and saying, "No looking," as she did so. Sherlock stared straight ahead and went through the rapidly dwindling list of possibilities for the evening.

When she spoke he could hear the smile in her voice. "This is fun for you," she said. "Trying to work it all out. Well, I hope things don't become boring too soon."

Sherlock saw movement out of the corner of his eye, but it wasn't until he felt cold hands on his genitals that his head snapped down, looking to see what the hell she was doing. What she appeared to be doing was manipulating his testicles through a silicone ring, and then doing the same with his penis until the ring rested against his body.

Sherlock gaped at her when she sat back, looking satisfied.

"I must say, you're a lot better at this obeying lark than I'd expected," she said, rifling through the box now and not looking at him. "I suppose all you need is the right incentive. This could work really quite well in the future."

"This deal only lasts twenty four hours," Sherlock said, wary now but trying not to show it. He wasn't sure he'd succeeded when she looked up and did that slow, creepy smile again.

"Plus however long it takes for the case to be solved," she added. "That depends, I suppose, on how good you are."

She took the next item out of the box, and Sherlock couldn't help but look. When he did, his eyes widened. This evening was becoming far from pedestrian.

"Open your legs," Stevenson said. She placed the item on the seat between them, on top of his clothes, and reached back into the box, pulling out a tube. She popped the lid and squeezed a clear gel out onto the fingers of her right hand.

Sherlock didn't quite believe she was going to do it until she did; one moment she was sitting there next to him with a box full of bizarre items, and then the next she'd knelt down a little awkwardly on the hump between the two footwells, and was using her right forefinger to massage his anus, before pushing the finger inside.

"What are you-" he started to say, but cut himself off.

"I rather think it's fairly obvious, don't you?" Stevenson said in reply, with a raised eyebrow.

"Weren't you supposed to be - ah! - going to work?" He regretted the sound the instant it left him, but it was involuntary, prompted by the entrance of a second finger. He'd never had anything even as thick as this in his anus before, and he glanced quickly at the object on the seat next to him, then away.

"They can wait a while longer," she said. "Serve them right for being so bloody useless without me." Sherlock agreed with the second half of the sentiment, but not the first.

After what seemed like far too long, Stevenson had worked four of her fingers into him, and at this point seemed satisfied and pulled them out again. Sherlock gave a little sigh, but the relief didn't hold when he caught sight of the expression on her face.

"I'm afraid the foreplay wasn't quite as long as I'd hoped for," she said, "But we'll just have to make do." With that, she picked up the object from the seat, quickly added some more of the gel to it, and began to work the dildo into Sherlock's anus.

He grunted, and once tried to sit back and away. She smacked him hard on the hip at that, snapping, "Lay back!" and he tried to respond as much as the limited space would allow, slumping down again so his arse moved towards her. This had the effect of essentially impaling himself on the dildo, and it wasn't at all comfortable, but the sight seemed to delight her.

"Sherlock Holmes, trying to fuck himself in the back of a police car while I watch," she said, sounding almost reverential.

"I'm not trying to fuck myself," Sherlock protested, even as he pushed down again and the dildo slid ever more in.

"But you are, darling," she said, and the word was so revoltingly incongruous to the situation. He couldn't work out at all what she was getting from this, unless perhaps she intended to show him off at the Yard or something. That would be embarrassing, but not that bad. Several of the police had seen him naked by now during one drug binge or another, and this was hardly a state of his own making. Just part of a deal, after which he'd get his reward.

His theorising was hampered somewhat, anyway, by the object being inserted inside of him. When it finally seemed to be all the way in, he breathed out slowly, then back in again, trying to adjust to the feeling. He knew people did this sort of thing for apparent pleasure, but god knows how it worked.

And then Stevenson wiggled it a little, somehow, despite it being so tight inside him, and suddenly he felt - something. He couldn't describe it but it made him gasp and start a little, and she gave a little laugh.

"Feel good?" she asked, feigning innocence, and pushed at it again. The same thing happened. Sherlock noted that his penis had begun to fill with blood. That was a little more embarrassing than the nakedness.

And then Stevenson pushed it again, and then did something which Sherlock heard click, but much more importantly than that, he felt it, because the whole thing started _vibrating_ inside of him. And it was still pushing against the same spot, that place which made him want to make really quite inappropriate noises, and his penis was still growing, and this was not, at all, what he'd been expecting.

"Almost ready," Stevenson said. Sherlock wasn't sure what she was getting ready for, but he hoped whatever it was would happen soon, because while this was pleasurable it was also really quite horrifying, in a sense. If he'd done this alone in his bedroom it probably would've been fine. Alone here, with her, in the back of a police car and her still fully clothed, and smiling at him...it all seemed somewhat obscene. Sherlock wasn't one to mind obscenity, usually, but this he understood, without being reprimanded by someone else with _morals_ first.

She had him lean forward, which didn't at all help with the sensations, and then he felt something silken start to wrap around his wrists as she pulled them together. He started, trying to pull them away, but she gripped one and said firmly, "Stop struggling."

"You can't tie me up," he said, on a bit of a gasp. "You can't...tie my hands up in a car, like _this_."

"I can and I am," she replied, "And technically I could do it with handcuffs for a myriad of reasons. Which would you prefer?"

Sherlock considered it, then let his shoulders drop. She clearly took note of the loss of tension, as she brought his wrists back together then, and swiftly tied them together.

When she let him lean back, he tested the binds. Not impossible to slip out of, but tight nonetheless. She'd clearly had practice.

"If you slip those I'll regard that as a dealbreaker," she said, clearly able to read him, and he met her eyes again, feeling cowed. It was an odd and uncomfortable feeling.

After a moment's eye contact, she got quickly out of the car again, bringing the box with her and this time putting it on the front passenger seat. She started the car again, instructed him to be careful, as though he had much choice in the matter like _this_ , and drove the remaining few streets to New Scotland Yard.

Once there she parked in the corner furthest from a light and turned round to survey him again. "I'll be as quick as I can," she said. "Don't go anywhere, don't say anything, and don't remove that."

Stevenson got out and locked the car. Sherlock squirmed, then regretted it as it pushed the vibrator against his prostate even harder.

He had no idea how long she was gone. Thought was so much more difficult in this state. He'd done experiments with masturbation before, of course, when it was necessary, but he'd never involved a vibrator, and the silicone ring soon served to prove itself as only an instrument of torture. He was close to the edge, but going nowhere.

Finally, _finally_ , she came back. He spared a brief moment for the thought, "What if it's not her?" but before he could get hysterical, he recognised her features, and was half glad and half afraid.

"Incompetence dealt with, for now," she said. "I may be needed again shortly but I said I had to deal with some personal issues while they followed up the lead." She was in the back with him again, and as she spoke, she undid her blouse. Her bra came off next and Sherlock found himself looking at her breasts in some state of bafflement. How had this come about?

She saw him looking and grinned. "That look suits you," she said. "Much better than that arrogant cocksure face you've got on most of the time." She reached out and grabbed his penis as she said that, making him jump a little, and then regret it as things moved inside him. He fought to still himself again.

When he opened his eyes, settled for now, she was in the process of pushing down her skirt, tights and underwear. Sherlock had the thought that he had never seen a naked women in a sexual situation before - at least not when he was present - and was also reminded as to why. He had absolutely no desire to be here.

With a little manoeuvring and a bit of creative swearing, Stevenson managed to perch herself on his knees again, only this time they were spread wide and both of them were naked, and the situation was infinitely more bizarre.

"I was imagining this the whole time I was in there," she said to him, leaning close so their torsos touched. Her hair brushed against his cheek. It felt itchy. "Have been since this afternoon, really, but this particular part in detail since I left you." She lowered her pelvis down until the tip of his penis was at her entrance. It felt sticky and odd.

"The thought," she said slowly, into his ear, "Of coming back here and sliding down onto your cock...you may be an arrogant bastard, Sherlock, but you're a bloody good looking one. I was rubbing myself underneath the desk even as I told those idiots what to do. That's why I'm soaking wet now, ready for this."

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat which he could only describe as a whimper. It was horrible. "Ready for what?" he asked.

She paused for a second, then said, "Ready to fuck you," in that same silky, dark tone.

"I don't want to," Sherlock said quietly. He felt like crying and it was awful.

Stevenson pulled back then, sat on his knees still but thankfully most of her body not touching his. He breathed a little easier. She stared hard at him.

"I want to fuck you, Sherlock," she said. "I want to use you as, essentially, a very elegant fucktoy. You agreed to twenty four hours minimum, plus the time it takes to solve the case, of doing whatever the hell I say. Then you get to play your game." She paused, as if perhaps she were waiting for him to protest that it wasn't a game. Usually he would have done but at the moment it didn't seem relevant, somehow.

"If you say no," she said carefully, "I won't do this. I won't rape you. Though technically it'd be sexual assault, since I don't have a penis, but we know what I mean. However, if you say no, the deal's off. No case."

Sherlock stared back at her, feeling helpless. He hadn't wanted any of this to happen, but he could put it up with it. But having his penis inside someone else...the idea was abhorrent. If he didn't, however, he wouldn't get to look at the case, and likely not at another for a very long time, if ever. Stevenson was the closest thing he'd got to a useful ally in the police force, and he needed to get involved in these things to keep him just this side of sane. Without them...the idea was unthinkable.

This...fucking wouldn't last very long, if Stevenson's signs of arousal were anything to go by. And afterwards he could work on at least this case, and maybe more without having to do it again. But if he didn't go through with it, he'd be cut off for good. Or more specifically, for bad.

"Okay," Sherlock said, sounding very small. He cleared his throat afterwards, like that would help.

"Yeah?" Stevenson's eyes lit up, and Sherlock closed his against the sight. "You're going to let me fuck you?"

Sherlock nodded, unable to say it again.

He waited, feeling the shift of weight transferring to his upper chest, and then her sliding forwards again. She stopped there suddenly, and he opened his eyes without meaning to. "I think..." she said pensively, then leant back again, reaching awkwardly behind her. "Just in case. This really isn't the best place for this, but neeeds must." Her hand returned with a roll of parcel tape, which she quickly tore a couple of strips off with her teeth, placing them over his mouth. She threw the tape back into the box as he stared at her. Then a hand, on his penis, and...oh, god. His eyes flew shut again.

She guided him inside her. He tried to think of anything but the feeling of being engulfed by warm, wet stickiness, but it was difficult when the only other overriding sensation was that of the relentless buzzing in his anus. His penis ached now and being surrounded by her didn't help.

"Ohhh," she breathed out, lying on him and not moving for several long moments. "That feels fantastic. That's just what I needed."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes tighter, didn't move, and concentrated. Easy and monotonous. Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen. He was dragged back by the feeling as she pushed herself up. He thought he might slide out of her but she stopped at the top, then sank back down again.

It was revolting.

Oxygen...fluorine, neon, sodium, magnesium, aluminium, silicon...oh, god, silicon.

He forced his thoughts forward to phosphorous and sulphur, and waited for it to end.

Somewhere around the first or second repetition of iron - he wasn't sure which, kept losing track and having to go back a few - Stevenson stopped moving on him. Dimly he registered the sound of a mobile ringing too, and opened his eyes at the moment that she leant backwards, feeling around on the front passenger seat underneath the box. He was still engulfed in her, but it wasn't as bad as when she slid up and down.

She got a grip on the phone, and then sat back and answered, "Hello?"

Sherlock had a brief thought that surely you didn't answer the phone during sex, even he knew that, but Stevenson maybe registered something on his face because she put her forefinger over where his lips were, under the tape, and frowned, listening to the voice on the other end. He tried not to move his mouth or even face in the slightest.

After a quick conversation consisting mostly of, "Yeah,"s from her end, Stevenson ended it with, "Be in in a minute, then," and ended the call, reaching behind her to toss the phone back onto the driver's seat.

"Sorry," she said, not sounding sorry in the least, "We're going to have to hurry this up." With that she pushed herself up again, then down sharply, causing herself to groan, and Sherlock to think desperately back. Iron. What comes after iron? Nickel. No, cobalt. Then nickel. Don't lose it. It's almost over.

Not soon enough, it was over. Stevenson stopped moving again, but this time she was tense all over, and Sherlock could feel her... _pulsing_ around him. It was horrific. Liquid dribbled out of her down his penis and onto his thighs, and he noted that he had been probably for some time now covered in sweat. The smell was not pleasant. He'd smelt much worse, but then he'd never been anywhere near as uncomfortable at the same time.

She gave herself a few moments before lifting herself off him with a sigh, and moving to sit beside him. His penis was still red and looking angry now. Sherlock understood. Someone ought to be angry about this.

"I wish I had more time to savour this," Stevenson sighed again, already pulling on her clothes. "But I suppose we can do that later. God, I'm going to stink...where are my wet wipes? Here they are..."

Sherlock heard her muttering to herself a while before he managed to mumble loud enough for her to hear him.

She pulled the side of the tape off, ignoring his wince, allowing him enough space to say, "Later?"

"Twenty four hours, darling," she said, smiling again, and oh god. He could not do this again. Not for one hour or twenty four hours or anything. But before he could speak, she had slapped the tape back down and was already opening the door.

Sherlock let the tears fall as the door clunked shut. It was completely undignified, not that he usually cared about that, but this was so out of his control. Usually he could force his emotions to basically go away, except for the boredom and the depression, but the sadness and the helplessness here was overwhelming. She might never ungag him and then he could never say no. He could fight her off, he supposed, that would be clear enough as to his wishes, but then he wouldn't get the case. But was it worth it?

He was still trying to decide what to do when a knock on the window made him jump visibly. He opened his eyes, expecting to see that creepy smile again, but got another shock when he was met by the gaze of an equally shocked-looking detective sergeant. He searched his mind for a name and it came up, sluggishly: Lestrade. A recent transfer to the Yard, hadn't personally given Sherlock any trouble though he had arrested him once under Stevenson's guidance.

Lestrade opened the door, wrinkled his nose momentarily and then allowed his features to settle back into shock. "What in god's name is going on here?" he asked.

Sherlock stared at him. He couldn't very well explain with the makeshift gag, anyway, but he wasn't sure he could explain particularly well with it removed.

Lestrade took it off anyway, apologising as he did so. It stung. The sting was a welcome distraction from certain other feelings. "Sherlock Holmes?" he questioned. Sherlock nodded vaguely. "What on earth are you doing here?" Lestrade allowed his eyes to quickly roam over Sherlock's body, but then came back to his face and stayed there. Fairly professional, then.

"Go away," Sherlock said, and was startled for a second at how desperate he sounded. "She'll be back soon."

"Who will? Mate, you cannot be doing whatever this is in the back of a police car. You just can't."

"I don't _want_ to," Sherlock half snapped, half whined, and then said, "Just, leave me. I'm fine, it's being dealt with."

"What is?" Lestrade sounded bewildered and it was interfering with Sherlock's ability to reason, which wasn't functioning particularly well anyway.

"It's her," Sherlock said. "She'll go mental if she catches you. Just leave."

"Who's this she you keep going on about?" Lestrade said, then paused. "You're not - oh, bloody hell, you don't mean the DI?"

"Yes," Sherlock said urgently. He wasn't at all sure of what he was feeling so urgent about, or why he was trying to get Lestrade to go away, or how that would help. He just needed all the things, the thoughts and feelings and that bloody buzzing to go away so he could concentrate and work out what he wanted to do.

"DI Stevenson got you here, like this?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded, giving up on the moment with speech. "You said - you don't want to be here." Sherlock stared at him and rolled his head in a complete lack of a nod, shake of the head or shrug.

Somehow, Lestrade seemed to understand this. "Listen, you've got to get out of here," he said. "I've no idea what got you into this but it's clear you're out of it and this can't-"

"Sergeant?" A sharp voice interrupted him. A wave of panic rushed up in Sherlock's chest, and he had no idea what to do. None at all. He just wanted to be out of this situation entirely, back to two days ago when he was high as a kite. People talked about drugs being dangerous, get a bad batch and it could kill you, but on the whole drugs were far more reliable and predictable than people.

Sherlock realised the two police officers were talking now, just this side of shouting, in fact.

"You can't be serious!" Lestrade said. "Ma'am, this is...this is insane!"

"This is consensual and none of your business," Stevenson replied. "We're both adults here and -"

"It's in the back of a bloody police car!" Lestrade burst out. "And look at him! He doesn't want this, he's barely got a clue what's going on. He looks fucking wrecked."

"He _usually_ looks fucking wrecked because he usually _is_ fucking wrecked," Stevenson said impatiently.

"I'm getting him out of here," Lestrade said, and started to turn to Sherlock. He'd moved away from the car a bit during the argument. Sherlock registered that he was shivering now; night had fallen and the sweat was rapidly cooling on his skin.

"Don't you dare!" Stevenson said, stopping Lestrade in his tracks.

But apparently he wasn't that easily commanded, this one.

"If you don't let me take him," he replied, "And...leave this station, I'll report you. Sex, consensual or not, in the back of a panda on police property, with a known drug addict who's suspected by everyone of having not a few mental health issues? That's not going to look good."

"Last chance, sergeant," she said, through gritted teeth.

Lestrade reached up to his radio. "This is DS Lestrade requesting backup in the car park of New Scotland Yard," he said. He let go of the button and stared at Stevenson, ignoring the crackly response from the radio. Sherlock noted him fumbling about in his trouser pocket, but couldn't guess what he was doing in his current state.

"Who's to say they'll believe this was me and not you?" Stevenson said quickly.

Lestrade took a sudden few steps back, and then pulled out a mobile from his pocket. There was a flash, and Sherlock realised he'd taken a photo of the car, him, and probably Stevenson as well.

"Deny it all you want," Lestrade responded, "But I've got some pretty damning evidence here even if he says nothing. So you can either try to fight that, or fuck off now."

Judging by the sound of rapid footsteps, Stevenson had chosen the second option. The car door suddenly slammed shut, startling Sherlock, and then he listened carefully over the still constant buzzing to hear Lestrade talking to the uniform that had run out, sounding apologetic and blaming local kids messing about.

"They ran off," he said, gesturing vaguely. "Three of 'em though so I figured it wasn't worth giving chase on my own. Looking in those cars but I don't think they did anything." He laughed with them a few moments more, the three of them throwing around casual insults about the local chavs, and then they left him, one of them telling him it was time to go home.

Lestrade agreed, handing over his radio, and then started to walk away. A few moments later he came back and opened the door. "Had to pretend I was going for my bike," he said. "Come on, let's get you out of here."

He paused then, seemingly taking in the whole situation at once, and Sherlock guessed he might be blushing, though it was difficult to tell in the lack of light.

"Sorry about this," Lestrade said, and then Sherlock felt hands on his genitals again. These ones at least were welcome, as they were aiming to provide him with relief instead of torture, and Lestrade seemed to be trying to touch as little of Sherlock as was possible.

The ring's removal brought some relief, but not much. Sherlock was still hard, but he had zero desire to masturbate. "Um," said Lestrade, and then reached between Sherlock's legs to get the vibrator.

That coming out felt glorious. For the first time in what felt like forever, his prostate was left alone, and once Lestrade switched it off as well the infernal buzzing was gone. Sherlock closed his eyes in relief.

"Right, let's..." Lestrade said. "Lean forward?" Sherlock did so, leaning heavily against the seat in front now. Lestrade untied the silk after a bit of struggle, and Sherlock pulled his hands around to his front again, massaging his wrists and noting the soreness of his shoulders, too.

"Hm," Lestrade said. "Suppose I could've done that first instead of going for the cockring." He sounded embarrassed, but Sherlock couldn't be bothered to care.

With Lestrade's help, he got redressed as much as was possible. His shoes, socks and jacket were long gone, but he'd probably get rid of the rest anyway so as to rid himself of the memory.

"I'll just go and say I'm using the car," Lestrade said, but Sherlock jumped at the thought.

"No!" he said urgently. "Please, don't - I don't want to stay in here."

Lestrade nodded, seemingly understanding. The car still smelt of sex, despite its airing. Sherlock did too, and he was looking forward longingly to scrubbing that off himself.

"I'll get another one then," he said, but again, Sherlock interrupted him.

"Can we not - can we not take a police car?" he said. It sounded like pleading. It probably was. He'd be disgusted with himself in the morning, but he was too busy being disgusted with the situation at the moment.

"Yeah, all right," Lestrade said. "I don't think I can take you on my bike, though..." Both of them contemplated that for a moment. Sherlock shut his eyes at the thought. "We'll get a taxi, come on."

He helped Sherlock climb gingerly out of the car, shutting the door behind him and leaving everything else there. Sherlock supposed Stevenson would deal with it, if only to cover herself. Sherlock leant against the car for a moment as Lestrade took his coat off, and then suddenly he was wrapping it around Sherlock. Sherlock felt a rush of gratitude like he hadn't felt in years. Possibly ever.

Lestrade took him back to his own place that night, saying something about wanting to keep an eye on him. Sherlock protested half-heartedly but couldn't manage to make himself care too much. When they arrived he was thankful for it because Lestrade's flat had hot water, and he showered for as long as he could stand up. When he exited the bathroom, wrapped in several towels and pink all over, Lestrade fed him tea and toast and then guided him to a guest bedroom. He was afraid he wouldn't fall asleep due to the fear which had begun to crawl up his throat since he left the shower, but exhaustion eventually overtook him, and he slept like the dead.

Stevenson transferred the next day, according to Lestrade, though Sherlock pretended not to hear him, as he always did if Lestrade ever brought up that day's events. Three months later, she had been exposed for fraud and fired in a scandal which made the national papers. She protested her innocence, but as several journalists pointed out, not that vehemently.

Coincidentally, at just around the same time, Sherlock's brother Mycroft was given a minor promotion at work, though of course as his role was so minor beforehand anyway, it was hardly any step up.

When Lestrade asked for Sherlock's advice on a case, several months later and only after refusing to speak to him unless he had been clean for forty eight hours, Sherlock wasn't sure he could face working with the police again. But he did, because he needed the work, and Lestrade made the lot of them bearable.

He refused, however, to ever sit in a police car again of his own volition.

**Author's Note:**

> I adore concrit. I would especially appreciate it for this piece as it's far out of my usual comfort zone.


End file.
